XXIV
GODESBERG AND ROLANDSECK
Godesberg
Within full view of the Seven Mountains, on the opposite bank of the Rhine, is Godesberg, – "a cheerful village with a castle which is a splendid ruin," say the guide-books.
They might go a bit further and recount something of its political and religious history, although usually they do not, but rush the tourist up-river to Coblenz, giving him only a sort of panoramic view of this portion of the Rhine.
Originally a castellum romain, the "cheerful village," known to the ancients as Ara Ubiorum, came under the control, in 1210, of the Archbishop Theodoric of Cologne, who built a chapel to St. Michael on the ancient ruins, which, according to tradition, had endured from the times of Julian the Apostate.
For many centuries there was a château here which served as the country-house of many of the archbishop-electors of the Empire, until destroyed by a thunderbolt. In 1593 it was pillaged by the troops of the Archbishop Ernest, and to-day only a great, lone, round tower remains intact.
For the rest it is a fine ruin and a picturesque one.
Rolandseck
But a short distance above Godesberg is Rolandseck; opposite which is the island of Nonnenwerth, with which it is associated in a famous legend.
The chivalrous Roland sought the love of some fair being, whose beauty and whose virtues should deserve and retain the heart of so brave and gallant a young knight. Nor did he look about in vain, for Hilda, the daughter of the lord of the Drachenfels, was all that dreams had pictured to his youthful fancy as worthy of an ardent soul's devotion, and soon he was made happy by a confession from the maiden that his passion was returned. Lost in a dream of first love, the knight forgot the world and its struggles, and, in the expectation of an early day for his wedding with his mistress, he lived a life of perfect joy, – now gazing with Hilda upon the windings of the Rhine; now watching her as she stooped gracefully to tend the flowers which peace allowed to flourish under the walls of her father's stronghold.
But Roland lived in times when love was but the bright, transient episode of a life of war. The laws of chivalry forbade a true knight's neglect of duty, and, in the very week in which he was to be wedded, the summons came for him to take the field.
The war was long, and it was three years before Roland left the camp. When he reached the home of his mistress, he received a frightful welcome. The castle was in ruins; its lord was slain; and Hilda, deceived by reports of Roland's death, had taken the veil in the neighbouring convent of Nonnenwerth!
Over the bright path of the young knight a dark and lasting shadow was cast. His early hopes were shattered; the joy of his existence had fled; his spirit bent beneath the weight of his evil fortune. But his faith and constancy were beyond the control of Fate. Retiring to his castle of Rolandseck, he made himself a seat within a window, from which he could look down upon the island of Nonnenwerth and the convent that held his beloved Hilda. Whether she heard of his return tradition does not say; but the rumour of such constancy was perhaps wafted through the nunnery walls. Be that as it may, it is chronicled that, after Roland's watch had been for three years prolonged, he heard one evening the tones of the bell that tolled for a passing soul, and next day the white figures of the nuns were seen bearing a sister to her last home. It was the funeral of Hilda.
The isle of Nonnenwerth and its convent are still there opposite the grim, gaunt, ruined gateway of Rolandseck, a brilliant jewel in an antique setting; and, while neither the conventual buildings nor the ruined château show any unusual architectural features, they are characteristic of the feudal and religious architecture of the middle ages.
Architects of to-day do not build with the same simplicity and grace that they did of old, and these little out-of-the-way gems of architecture are far more satisfying than are similar erections of to-day.
XXV
COLOGNE AND ITS CATHEDRAL
No stranger ever yet entered Cologne without going straight to see its mighty Gothic cathedral. Three things come to him forcibly, – the fact that it was only completed in recent years, the great and undecided question as to who may have been its architect, and the "Legend of the Builder," as the story is known.
There are two legends of the cathedral and its builders which no visitor will ever forget.
The Architect of Cologne
Mighty was Archbishop Conrad de Hochsteden, for he was lord over the chief city of the Rhine, the city of Cologne; but his thoughts were troubled, and his heart was heavy, for, though his churches were rich beyond compare in relics, yet other towns not half so large or powerful as his had cathedrals whose fame extended over Europe, and whose beauty brought pilgrims to their shrines, profit to the ecclesiastics, and business to the townspeople. After many sleepless nights, therefore, he determined to add to his city the only thing wanting to complete it, and, sending for the most famous architect of the time, he commissioned him to draw the plans for a cathedral of Cologne.
Now the architect was a clever man, but he was more vain than clever. He had a vague idea of the magnificence which he desired to achieve without a clear conception of how he was to do it, or without the will to make the necessary sacrifices of labour, care, and perseverance. He received the commission with great gladness, and gloated for some days upon the fame which would be his as the builder of the structure which the archbishop desired; but when, after this vision of glory, he took his crayons to sketch out the design, he was thrown into the deepest despondency. He drew and drew, and added, and erased, and corrected, and began again, but still did not succeed. Not a plan could he complete. Some were too mean, others too extravagant, and others, when done and examined, were found to be good, but not original. Efforts of memory instead of imagination, their points of excellence were but copies of other cathedrals, – a tower from one, a spire from another, an aisle from a third, and an altar from a fourth; and one after another they were cast aside as imperfect and useless, until the draughtsman, more than half-crazed, felt inclined to end his troubles and perplexities by a plunge into the Rhine.
In this mood of more than half-despair, he wandered down to the river's edge, and, seating himself upon a stone, began to draw in the sand with a measuring rod, which served as a walking-stick, the outlines of various parts of a church. Ground-plans, towers, finials, brackets, windows, columns, appeared one after another, traced by the point of his wand; but all, one after another, were erased as unequal and insufficient for the purpose, and unworthy to form a part of the design for a cathedral of Cologne. Turning around, the architect was aware that another person was beside him, and, with surprise, the disappointed draughtsman saw that the stranger also was busily making a design. Rapidly on the sand he sketched the details of a most magnificent building, its towers rising to the clouds, its long aisles and lofty choir stretching away before the eye of the startled architect, who mentally confessed that it was indeed a temple worthy of the Most High. The windows were enriched by tracery such as artist never had before conceived, and the lofty columns reared their tall length toward a roof which seemed to claim kindred with the clouds, and to equal the firmament in expanse and beauty. But each section of this long-sought plan vanished the moment it was seen, and, with a complete conviction of its excellence, the architect was unable to remember a single line.
"Your sketch is excellent," said he to the unknown; "it is what I have thought and dreamed of, – what I have sought for and wished for, and have not been able to find. Give it to me on paper, and I will pay you twenty gold pieces."
"Twenty pieces! ha! ha! twenty gold pieces!" laughed the stranger. "Look here!" and from a doublet that did not seem big enough to hold half the money, he drew forth a purse that certainly held a thousand.
The night had closed in, and the architect was desperate. "If money cannot tempt you, fear shall force you;" and, springing toward the stranger, he plucked a dagger from his girdle, and held its point close to the breast of the mysterious draughtsman. In a moment his wrists were pinioned, as with the grasp of a vise, and squeezed until he dropped his weapon and shrieked in agony. Falling on the sands, he writhed like an eel upon the fisherman's hook; but plunged and struggled in vain. When nearly fainting, he felt himself thrown helpless upon the very brink of the stream.
"There! revive, and be reasonable. Learn that gold and steel have no power over me. You want my cathedral, for it would bring you honour, fame, and profit; and you can have it if you choose."
"How? – tell me how?"
"By signing this parchment with your blood."
"Avaunt, fiend!" shrieked the architect; "in the name of the Saviour I bid thee begone." And so saying, he made the sign of the cross; and the Evil One (for it was he) was forced to vanish before the holy symbol. He had time, however, to mutter: "You'll come for the plan at midnight to-morrow."
The architect staggered home, half-dead with contending passions, and muttering: "Sell my soul," "To-morrow at midnight," "Honour and fame," and other words which told the struggle going on within his soul. When he reached his lodgings, he met the only servant he had going out wrapped in her cloak.
"And where are you going so late?" said her surprised master.
"To a mass for a soul in purgatory," was the reply.
"Oh, horror! horror! no mass will avail me. To everlasting torments shall I be doomed;" and, hurrying to his room, he cast himself down with tears of remorse, irresolution, and despair. In this state his old housekeeper discovered him on her return from her holy errand, and, her soul being full of charity and kindly religion, she begged to know what had caused such grief; and spoke of patience in suffering, and pardon by repentance. Her words fell upon the disordered ear of the architect with a heavenly comfort; and he told her what had passed.
"Mercy me!" was her exclamation. "Tempted by the fiend himself! – so strongly, too!" and, so saying, she left the chamber without another word, and hurried off to her confessor.
Now the confessor of Dame Elfrida was the friend of the abbot, and the abbot was the constant counsellor of the archbishop, and so soon as the housekeeper spoke of the wonderful plan, he told her he would soon see her master, and went at once to his superior. This dignitary immediately pictured to himself the host of pilgrims that would seek a cathedral built with skill from such wonderful sketches, and (hoping himself one day to be archbishop) he hurried off to the bewildered architect.
He found him still in bed, and listened with surprise to the glowing account of the demon's plan.
"And would it be equal to all this?"
"It would."
"Could you build it?"
"I could."
"Would not pilgrims come to worship in such a cathedral?"
"By thousands."
"Listen, my son! Go at midnight to the appointed spot; take this relic with you;" and, so saying, the abbot gave him a bone of one of the Eleven Thousand Virgins. "Agree to the terms for the design you have so long desired, and when you have got it, and the Evil One presents the parchment for your signature, show this sacred bone."
After long pondering, the priest's advice was taken; and, in the gloom of night, the architect hurried tremblingly to the place of meeting. True to his time, the fiend was there, and, with a smile, complimented the architect on his punctuality. Drawing from his doublet two parchments, he opened one, on which was traced the outline of the cathedral, and then another written in some mysterious character, and having a space left for a signature.
"Let me examine what I am to pay so dearly for."
"Most certainly," said the demon, with a smile, and a bow that would have done honour to the court of the emperor.
Pressing it with one hand to his breast, the architect with the other held up the holy bone, and exclaimed: "Avaunt, fiend! In the name of the Father, and the Son, and the Holy Virgins of Cologne, I hold thee, Satan, in defiance;" and he described the sign of the cross directly against the devil's face.
In an instant the smile and the graceful civility were gone. With a hideous grin, Satan approached the sacred miracle as though he would have strangled the possessor; and, yelling with a sound that woke half the sleepers in Cologne, he skipped round and round the architect. Still, however, the plan was held tightly with one hand, and the relic held forward like a swordsman's rapier with the other. As the fiend turned, so turned the architect; until, bethinking himself that another prayer would help him, he called loudly on St. Ursula. The demon could keep up the fight no longer; the leader of the Eleven Thousand Virgins was too much for him.
"None but a confessor could have told you how to cheat me," he shrieked in a most terrible voice; "but I will be revenged. You have a more wonderful and perfect design than ever entered the brain of man. You want fame, – the priest wants a church and pilgrims. Listen! That cathedral shall never be finished, and your name shall be forgotten!"
As the dreadful words broke upon the architect's ear, the cloak of the Tempter stretched out into huge black wings, which flapped over the spot like two dark thunderclouds, and with such violence that the winds were raised from their slumber, and a storm rose upon the waters of the Rhine. Hurrying homewards, the relic raised at arm's length over his head, the frightened man reached the abbot's house in safety. But the ominous sentence still rang in his ears, – "Unfinished and forgotten."
Days, months, years passed by, and the cathedral, commenced with vigour, was growing into form. The architect had long before determined that an inscription should be engraved upon a plate of brass shaped like a cross, and be fastened upon the front of the first tower that reached a good elevation. His vanity already anticipated a triumph over the Fiend whom he had defrauded. He was author of a building which the world could not equal, and, in the pride of his heart, defied all evil chances to deprive him of fame. Going to the top of the building to see where his name should be placed, he looked over the edge of the building to decide if it was lofty enough to deserve the honour of the inscription, when the workmen were aware of a black cloud which suddenly enveloped them, and burst in thunder and hail. Looking around, when the cloud had passed away, their master was gone! and one of them declared that amidst the noise of the explosion he heard a wail of agony which seemed to say, "Unfinished and forgotten."
When they descended the tower, the body of the architect lay crushed upon the pavement. The traveller who beholds the building knows of the difficulties which beset its completion, and thousands have since then sought in vain to learn the name of "The Architect of Cologne," although of late years – though with some doubt it is stated – his name and fame appear to have been established.
The Pfaffen Thor
When Archbishop Conrad of Hochsteden, the founder of the cathedral, had been gathered to his fathers, Engelbrecht of Falkenberg reigned over Cologne in his stead; and a fearful tyrant he became.
As in the case of the spiritual lords who ruled over Liège, the crozier of the archbishop became a rod of iron to the citizens, until at length they were goaded to open rebellion. In their contests for liberty, they were led by Hermann Grynn, a townsman who had put aside the peaceful pursuit of his trade to do battle in the good cause of his native city, and to maintain the privileges which his fathers had purchased, not only with their gold, but with their blood.
After numerous contests between the burghers and their oppressors, the cause of the many was triumphant, and the archbishop was glad to agree to terms which he before had spurned. But the truce he sought was hollow and unfaithful, and he was heard to say that, if Hermann Grynn were removed, he would be able to take away the privileges he had surrendered to the townsmen.
This treacherous speech was greedily received by two priests, who determined to advance their own welfare by the downfall of the citizen-patriot. Making the acquaintance of Hermann, whose honest nature suspected no treachery, they wormed themselves into his confidence, and at a fitting opportunity invited him to the cathedral to see its hidden beauties and great store of riches. Leading him from chapel to cloister, and through chamber after chamber, they came at length to a door which they said contained the richest sight of all; and one of them, unlocking the door, invited the citizen to enter. No sooner had he crossed the threshold than the thick portal was closed suddenly upon him, and, at the same moment, he heard the roar of some wild animal, and saw fixed upon him two fierce eyes gleaming with hunger and savage rage.
Hermann Grynn was a man for emergencies. Rapidly twisting his cloak around his left arm, and drawing his short sword, he prepared for the attack; nor had he long to wait. With a growl of triumph, a huge animal sprang upon him with open jaws; but with admirable coolness the hero received his assailant upon the guarded arm, and, whilst the brute ground its teeth into the cloak, he thrust his sword into its heart. Searching around the chamber, he was aware of a window concealed by a shutter, and, opening this, he looked forth into the streets, where a great crowd was collected around a priest, who went along telling some tale which seemed to move the people to deep grief. As the throng drew nearer, he listened eagerly, and heard with surprise "how the good burgess Hermann Grynn, the friend of the people, and the well-beloved ally of the Church, had without advice sought a chamber where a lion was in durance, and had fallen a sacrifice to his unhappy curiosity." Burning with rage and a determination to expose the treachery of the priests, he waited till the crowd came beneath the window from which he looked; and then, dashing the glass into a thousand pieces, he attracted attention to the spot, and, leaning half out of the opening, displayed his well-known cap in one hand and his bloody sword in the other. He was almost too high to be heard, but the faint echo of his war-cry was enough to convince the people of his identity, and with one voice they shouted: "To the rescue!" Forcing their way into the cathedral, they quickly released their leader, and, learning from him the story of cruel treachery, the two priests were ferreted from their hiding-places, and hanged by the neck in the room over the body of the dead lion. To this day the portal they slammed on Hermann Grynn is known as the Pfaffen Thor, – the priest's door, – whilst over the gate of the venerable town hall of Cologne may yet be seen, graven in stone, the fight of the citizen-patriot with the hungry lion of the cathedral.
These two legends refer solely to the cathedral. There is, in addition, the rather more familiar one of "St. Ursula and the Eleven Thousand Virgins."
And, besides legends, there is much real symbolism that peeps out wherever one turns. The skulls of the "Three Kings" still grin from under their crowns in the cathedral, as they did when Frederick Barbarossa stormed Milan and brought back these relics of the three Magi. Beneath the pavement of the cathedral lies buried the heart of Marie de Medici, who, in her fallen fortunes, died at Sternen-Gasse 10, in the house where Peter Paul Rubens was born.
In a rather roundabout way the name of one great in letters is associated with Cologne. Petrarch came here on his way from Avignon to Paris in 1331, and the superb beginnings of the new cathedral inspired him with the most profound admiration. In a letter which he addressed to his friend and protector, Jean Colonna, he said: "I have seen in this city the most beautiful temple; yet incomplete, but which is truly entitled to rank as a supreme work."
It was a fortunate day for the history of the church at Cologne when the Evangelist first preached the gospel in the city of Colonia Agrippina. In those days the primitive church sheltered itself modestly under the shadow of the Roman fortress, whereas to-day the great cathedral rises, stately and proud, high above the fortification of the warlike Teuton – if he really be warlike, as the statesmen of other nations proclaim.
When Charlemagne fixed his official residence at Aix-la-Chapelle, he placed his imperial palace in the diocese of Cologne; the two cities together, by reason of their power and importance, standing as a symbol of mightiness which did much to make the great, unwieldy dominion of the Carlovingian Emperor hang together.
It has been claimed, and there certainly seems some justification for it, that the general plan of the cathedral at Cologne is similar to that of Notre Dame d'Amiens; there is something about the general scale and proportions that makes them quite akin. Perhaps this is due to the particularly daring combination of its lines and the general hardiness of its plan and outline. These features are certainly common to both in a far greater degree than are usually found between two such widely separated examples. At any rate, it is perhaps as safe a conjecture as any, since the hand that traced the plan of Cologne is lost in doubtful obscurity, to consider that there is something more than an imaginary bond between the cathedrals of Amiens and Cologne.
A resemblance still more to be remarked is the great height of the choir and nave. This is most marked at Amiens and still more so at Beauvais. Cologne, as to these dimensions, ranks between the two.
There was once a Romanesque cathedral at Cologne, but a fire made way with it in 1248. Certain facts have come down to us regarding this earlier building, but they appear decidedly contradictory, though undoubtedly it was an edifice of the conventional Rhenish variety. It is supposed that this original cathedral had at least a "family resemblance" to those at Mayence, Worms, and Speyer.
These three great ecclesiastical works in the Rhine valley mark the Hohenstaufen dynasty as one of the most prolific in German church-building. Although they are not as beautiful as one pictures the perfect cathedral of his imagination, – at least no more beautiful than many other hybrid structures, – they show an individuality that is peculiarly Rhenish, far more so than the present cathedral at Cologne or any of the smaller churches of the region.
After the fire in 1248 a new cathedral was planned as a commensurate shrine in which to shelter the relics of the "Three Wise Men of the East," which henceforth were to be known as "The Three Kings of Cologne." From this period on, Cologne began to acquire such wealth and prominence as to mark the era as the "Golden Age" in the civic and ecclesiastical affairs of the city.
Abandoning the basilica plan entirely, a great Gothic church was undertaken. In its way it was to rival those Gothic masterpieces of France.
The origin of the plan of the cathedral in fact, as well as in legend, is vague. Some have considered Archbishop Engelbert, Count of Altona and Berg, who was murdered in 1225, as the author, but this can hardly have been so, unless it were conceived before the basilica was burned.
Assiduous research has been made from time to time in an effort to discover the identity of the actual designer of the present cathedral: Archbishops Engelbert and Conrad, Albertus Magnus, Meister Gerard, and others have all had the honour somewhat doubtfully awarded to them and again withdrawn.
There is a great painting exhibited at Frankfort called "Religion Glorified by the Arts," by Overbeck, wherein is an ideal portrait of the "Great Unknown of Cologne" pictured as the genius of architecture.
A comparatively recent discovery seems to award the honour to Gerard de St. Trond. A charter of 1257 makes mention of the fact that the chapter of the cathedral had given a house, for services rendered, to one Gerard, "a stone-cutter," who had directed the work of construction; this gift being made some years after the foundations were first laid.
The same architect figures among the benefactors of the hospital of St. Ursula as "the master of the works at the cathedral." Perhaps, then, the name of Gerard de St. Trond deserves to be placed with that of Libergier, the designer of Reims, the greatest Gothic splendour of France.
Engelbert's successor, Conrad of Hochsteden, furthered the plans, whoever may have been their creator, and work on the new edifice was begun a few months after the destruction of the older one.
On August 14, 1248, the foundation-stone of the new structure was laid, forty-four feet below the surface of the ground.
The portion first erected was the choir, and for ages it stood, as it stands in its completed form to-day, as perfect an example of the style of its period as is extant.
For seventy years this choir was taking form, until it was consecrated on September 27, 1322.
The occasion was a great one for Cologne and for the church. The ceremony was attended by much glitter and pomp, both ecclesiastical and civil.
No sooner was the choir completed than it was embellished as befitted the shrine of the three kings.
Coloured glass, stone, and wood-carving, and the art of the gold and jewel smith all blended to give a magnificence to the whole which was perhaps unapproachable elsewhere at the time.
Then, for a time, enthusiasm and labour languished. For nearly two centuries the work was pursued by the prelates and architects in a most desultory and intermittent fashion.
The choir had been completed, and to the westward considerable progress had been made, but there was a gaunt ugly gap between. It would seem as though there were no intention of ever joining the scattered parts, which were linked only by the foundation-stones, for the nave and aisles were left merely covered with temporary roofs.
Then the Reformation came, and that boded no good for the cathedral. The people looked askance at the symbol of such great power in the hands of Rome.
The seventeenth century saw some abortive efforts toward completing the structure, but in the end all came to nought.
In the eighteenth century the choir received its baptism of the Renaissance, and certain incongruous Italian details were added. The stone screens which surrounded the choir proper were demolished and the painted glass of the triforium mysteriously disappeared.
During the French Revolution, Republican troops bivouacked within the walls of Cologne's cathedral, and the chapter fled to Westphalia, leaving behind valuable archives which were destroyed.
The very fact of its profanation may have been the cause which hastened the restoration of the edifice.
Napoleon himself was deeply moved by the state of the "ruine pittoresque," and, upon the advice of an agent of his government, made a somewhat fitful attempt toward putting it in order. Thus the impetus for the work of restoration and completion was given.
After Napoleon had restored the churches of Cologne to their rightful guardians, he transferred the archbishopric to Aix-la-Chapelle, and Bertholet, the new bishop, contemptuously told the people of Cologne to beautify their ruin by planting trees on its site.
The neglect to which the choir had fallen was shocking, and it took an immediate expenditure on the part of the citizens of over thirty thousand marks to merely repair the leaks in its roof. Tom Hood, a supposed humourist, but in reality a sad soul, wailed over Cologne's cathedral when he saw it in the early years of the nineteenth century, and called it "a broken promise to God"; and Wordsworth wrote of it thus:
"Oh! for the help of angels to complete
This temple – Angels governed by a plan
Thus far pursued (how gloriously!) by man."
A rearrangement of the Catholic sees of Germany took place in 1821, and the archbishopric of Cologne was refounded and Count Charles Spiegel zum Desenburg was appointed archbishop.
At this time, also, was undertaken the repair and completion of the cathedral, and thus what had long been a ruin and an unfinished thing was in a fair way to be speedily completed.
The rebuilding of the choir stimulated the desire to carry the entire work to a finish, and a sort of second foundation-stone was laid by Frederick William IV. of Prussia on September 4, 1842, when the newly restored choir was also reopened.
In 1848 the nave had sufficiently progressed to allow of its being consecrated; which ceremony took place at seven o'clock in the morning of August 14th, six hundred years after the commencement of the choir. High mass was celebrated by the archbishop, in the presence of Archduke John, King Frederick William of Prussia, and a host of other notables.
Within the next twenty years much progress was made in the work of completing the southern nave, the west front – with those enormous pretentious towers – the transepts, and the triforium and clerestory of the nave and transepts.
In 1863 the wall between the fragmentary nave and the choir was removed and the structure opened from end to end.
Before 1870 the western towers were spired, though the final touches were not given to them until quite 1880. Now that they are finished, there is an undeniable elegance and symmetry which cannot be gainsaid, though they were certainly heavily massed in the early views one sees of the cathedral in its unfinished state. One still remarks the apparent – and real – stubbiness of the edifice which, as Fergusson said, would have been alleviated if the overhanging transepts had been omitted. Why they should have been omitted it is hard to conceive, and the criticism does not seem a reasonable one, in spite of the fact that a certain sense of length is wanting.